Resident Evil: TQR
by Discoverywatchingboy
Summary: An alternative version of what could have happened to someone else during the REmovies.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters or places lifted from the already existing Resident Evil universe. Nor do I own any of the products mentioned in the text. I don't get any profit from this. In fact, if you want to give me piles of cash because you think the story is so good, you can't.

Before anyone starts laughing and pointing I'd like to apologize for any misspellings and grammatical curiosities. (Translating into English forces me to think and it really slows me down.)

As a last note I'd like to warn that the text does contain some bad language and violence (mostly zombies getting their heads smashed in), so if you are offended by this, or just aren't interested, I suggest you turn around right now.

**Resident Evil: T-QR**

(An alternative version of what could have happened to someone else during the RE-movies.)

Episode 01:"**An Afternoon of Beer, Fishing and Tranquillizer**"

Nathan Springfield pulled the handbrake and got out of his red -93 Subaru Justy. This place always got him in a better mood. The long drive up; gravel roads with holes big enough to loose his beloved car in, it was worth it. A lake as blue as crystal, only rivalled by the sky above, the green woods and the cabin.

His grandfather's pickup was there, like it always seemed to. The old man was standing down by the small, homemade peer, looking out over the water. Obviously in deep thoughts. He turned around, and his eyes caught Nat. In a split second Nat felt some strange coldness. It didn't come from Oliver, although it had hit as his eyes did. But it passed as suddenly as it had arrived and Nat thought nothing more of it.

Oliver started up the slope, and Nat went to meet him. In the back of his mind he noted how the old man really had become an old man, only in the last three years. Nat seemed to remember him as much more athletic, not that much older than his dad. Now he was bent forward and everything seemed to make him pant.

"You're late," Oliver almost snapped. "I didn't know we were on a schedule." Nat was caught off guard, and the old man noticed. He smiled and patted his grandson on the shoulder. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. It's just such a shame to waste this wonderful day alone," he said, overdramatically. But he did steal a glance at his watch.

Nat had gotten a mail from Oliver that morning. It was on his computer when he woke up, and according to the history it had arrived at 03:46. He knew Oliver worked off hours, but he usually didn't mix up his own schedule and the rest of the world's. But then again, he was one of God's originals. The message was a request to come and see him, at the cabin, for some beer and fishing, and Nat wasn't one to let that type of offer pass.

Tow chairs and a small table, one of those you could fold to practically fit in your pocket, was placed on the narrow porch. Tow glasses had already started to gather drops of condensation, the golden liquid inside foaming vigorously around the rim. All the way on the other end; a cooling bag with ice and more beer.

Oliver picked up both glasses, looked at them for a second, and then gave one of them to Nat. "Bottoms up," he declared, and took a good sip.

"Gett´n right to it, hu?" Nat smiled, and gobbled down almost half, no way he was going to get out-drinked by an old, grey-heard man.

"This one's for you, son," Oliver almost whispered as he lower his glass.

Nat came up to breath; foam clinging to his upper lip like Magnum PI was back in. Tears rushed to his eyes, cold staked his throat and a strange tickle in the back of his neck was slowly drawing his attention. He coughed a second before he took another sip, more moderate.

A cool wind came rushing in from the eastern side of the lake, where the mountains let off and the lowlands began. But Nat barely felt it. That strange tickle was growing, and spreading. It reached his forehead, and nausea was suddenly all over him. "That one had a bit of a kick to it," he said and almost fell down into one of the chairs.

"That's the tranquillizer," he heard his grandfather explain before it all went black.

When Nat opened his eyes he was looking at a blurred image of his black t-shirt and blue jeans. His head was hung forward, chin resting on his chest. His mouth had at horrible taste, despite being dry as sandpaper. His ears where ringing and the splitting headache got his blurry vision to vibrate.

The stiff neck barely let him raise his head. It hurt like hell, but he wanted to know what was going on. Trying to move his arms he realised he was bound to the chair with nylon straps. So was his waist to the chair's backrest and his legs to it's. Slowly the inside of the cabin came into focus.

Through the bell-choir in his ears he picked up footsteps behind him. Oliver came into view. Nat looked up at him with his head tilted and his eyes pinching to protect him from the light. The old man held something in his hand. It looked like a shiny pistol, and suddenly Nat was afraid. As his eyes cleared he saw it wasn't, but the revelation didn't help. The thing his grandfather was holding was a lot scarier than a pistol.

It was one of those injection guns. All steel, tubes, needles and a black rubber grip. It even had a glass container sticking out of the top. Something red splashing inside it. Oliver was tinkering with the ting, flipping a switch. He didn't seem to have noticed that Nat had come to.

"What are you doing, gramps?" Nat was surprised by how hoarse he was. Oliver jumped back, his wide eyes locked on Nat before he turned around. Nat could hear him swallowing.

"Oliver, what's going on?"

"This is a very… special… substance," Oliver said, then turned around, his eyes on the red liquid. Nat saw he was scared, and caressed the gun seemingly for comfort, or reassurance.

"Gramps…?" Nat began, but Oliver cut him off. "This is only enough for one dosage. If I cut it, it won't work on any of us." He paused for a moment, then added, almost too silently for Nat to hear; "Besides, its better this way."

Nat swallowed. "Don't…" He didn't get any more out. Oliver removed the protection from a mean looking needle. He walked over to Nat's left, and it wasn't before now the kid noticed that his sleeve already had been rolled up.

"I could have set this when you were under, but it will be easier to understand this way," Oliver said.

"Understand what?" Nat's voice shivered. He began to understand what people meant with "the world coming crushing down around them".

Oliver put the needle to Nat's clear, purple artery. "No," Nat said. He planned to rip his arm away just in time, he thought maybe he had the room despite the restraints, but this injection gun didn't just look futuristic. Suddenly the needle had shot forward about a tenth of an inch, just piercing the skin and the artery, and in a hiss of escaping pressurised air the red – special – substance disappeared into his arm.

About two seconds later the pain kicked in. And, let's say, Nat forgot the headache. Like his arm was turning into stone, every cell felt like they were cramping up. He tightened every muscle he had, just to try to cushion the blow.

The pain spread to his entire left arm, and it froze up so he couldn't move it. But when it stopped, it eased off a little. Nat sighted relieved.

"It's going to hurt, more than it's doing now," Oliver warned, and Nat could swear he picked up concern in the old mans voice, though he couldn't fit it in to the rest of the picture.

The stoning began again, now its origin was his heart, and it was like it was pumped through his system with every beat. Nat's body jerked violently, and fought the solid restraints. Oliver was still standing over him, looking down on his grandson with tears swelling up in his eyes. A faint flapping noise appeared, and Oliver turned his attention to the roof. The sound of the approaching helicopter reached its zenith and began do disappear again. It hadn't even gotten close to the cabin.

Nat screamed. It felt like something had taken residence in his throat, it wanted out, and it wasn't of the kind type. His whole torso, midsection and thighs had gone hard as stone. How his heart managed to beat in that shell was beyond him, but it did beat, like a manic. His eyes went sideways, and caught Oliver's. His grandfather met his gaze. It was to be for the last time. "You will probably pass out again," Nat heard him say just before he passed out.

Nat regained consciousness, and the pain was so severe he didn't even notice that he was no longer tied to the chair, that he was in fact lying curled up on the floor. Best described as a hundred iron stakes sticking straight trough him, twisting and turning, Nat was simply waiting for it to pass, or kill him. He didn't have the strength to respond.

He had no idea how long he had been lying there, waiting. But the iron bars slowly stopped twisting, and eventually he regained the power to move. The solid wooden table was standing right beside him, so he grabbed the edge of it - with resolution written straight across his bloodshot eyes - and pulled him self up.

The first he saw was a piece of paper. It had a message written on it. Nat blinked several times, to focus and clear up his vision. It was all foggy. Slowly the words separated from the paper.

"Nathan, I'm sorry."

"There's little time. Take my pickup and head up the old forest-road. You know the one. If you're lucky they're not watching it. But don't take any chances. Stop the car by the old mill and walk from there. If it's clear, take the car, if it's not, find a way past on foot. Run as far as you can, and I'm talking deserts, elephants and tigers, if you have to. You'll understand later."

"What ever you do, don't go back to town. Not for anything!"

"PS: There's a little something for you in the cabinet. Listen carefully. Use any means necessarily to get out. Any, Nathan, any."

"Again, I hope you will find it to forgive me, Nat."

Either he was completely fucked up in his head, or the note didn't make any sense. He stood there hulked over the table and wanted nothing more than to throw up. It didn't happen. "Oliver!" he screamed, suddenly, even surprising him self. No one answered. The cabinet was placed up against a wall in the other end of the room, but before Nat got to take two steps towards it, the pain shot in a counterargument.

His knees slammed into the floor. The muscles on his back twitching, it felt like someone was melting his spinal cord with a plasma torch. Nerve endings popping like firecrackers all over the place. It wasn't until he woke up, cloths drenched in sweat, that he realised he had passed out again.

At least now he was so numb he barely felt anything. He was shaking like mad, and felt like someone had left his power tap open, but staying on the floor for a couple of minutes seemed to help. Lying there he realized that the light had changed. It was darker. The day had passed, but he couldn't remember if it had been this dark when he had read the letter.

Continuing on the rout he had began an unknown amount of time earlier, he got to the cabinet. This was probably the closest you could get to a safe, if you only had wood to work with. He opened the thick double doors to the shelves on the top, and saw ten cardboard boxes piled on top of each other.

On the shelf at the bottom he found a small, blue metal case. The black locks snapped open under Nat's fingers and two guns were reviled. They had a blue finish and lay in cut-out holes in the foam rubber lining the interior. Eight extra magazines where placed in holes next to them. Nat closed the lid again. "Colt 1911 Model No. 1" was imprinted in the metal.

At first glance the guns seemed perfectly ordinary. He picked one up and noticed that the barrel was wide enough to loose a finger in. Pulling the slide back he saw that the chamber was of considerable size too. Taking one of the boxes down he read; "cal. 50 GI". 50 rounds in each, he opened it and picked one up. The flat nosed fat little stub looked like it knew exactly what it had been made for.

Together with the metal case there were holsters for the guns and the extra clips. He checked the drawers under the shelves, but found nothing he could use.

"Jesus, gramps, what the hell are you planning for?"

Leaving the guns and the ammo in the cabinet Nat walked outside. "Oliver? Gramps?" He noticed that he wasn't angry anymore. That numb feeling had overshadowed almost everything, and now it just felt like being drunk, but without any of fun bits. His red -93 Subaru Justy was still facing down Oliver's silver -02 Dodge Ram 1500. It didn't look to be a fair fight.

"Ol…" Nat was about to call out again, when something appeared. It wasn't something physical, though it might as well have been. It was the sensation of burning against his skin. At this distance it was actually kind of nice, but it was coming closer, fast. He could see now how it would end, and as if that wasn't enough, the burning began inside him as well.

"What the hell have you given me?" Nat screams as fire burst in every cell. He was holding his hands up in front of himself, convinced that there must be something wrong with his eyes; he couldn't se the red-hot flames licking his fingers clean. Suddenly, only one thing occupied his mind, he galloped down the slope and fell face first into the ice cold water.

It was bliss. Pure ecstasy. Though the fire still burned him from the inside, the cold water made his skin feel like it was made of ice. He could have stayed down there forever. Realizing that he actually couldn't, and that he was drowning, he through his head up.

A couple of minutes later he was out of the lake, on dry land, and freezing in the cold, wet cloths. He had decided with himself not to complain when his now surprisingly clear eyes caught a glimpse of something up in the forest. It looked like a newly cut log hanging vertically about three feet in the air, with one end resting against a bigger tree.

Between the bigger tree, and another big tree 50 feet away - surly 20 feet in the air - another log had been suspend, and it was this log the smaller one was hanging from. Nat could barely make out the wires used to keep it up. But he thought he saw something else too. The colour of cloths was sticking out against the green and brown. And he thought he recognized them.

The whole instalment was angled away from him, so he had to get closer to see. But as he came up the hill and saw that there really was someone sitting up against the first big tree, on the side of the suspended log, a voice in his head screamed out not to go any further.

He ignored it, of course, and began to circle. The view that met him made him vomit immediately. Like his guts suddenly decided to spring clean. The log was resting in head height on the side of the stem where his grandfather also was resting.

As Nat tried to straighten himself out he noticed a thin rope resting in Oliver's limp right hand. It ran up into the other big tree, where it seemed to be connected to some homemade release mechanism.

Nat stumbled down the hill and came to a halt in the middle of the square. As though every trace of resolution had been striped from his mind he just stood there. Glancing out over the now almost black water. The sun was about to make the wooded hills surrounding him. He thought he heard a series of jet planes somewhere in the distance, but as soon as the sound was gone, they were out of his head.

Suddenly his right foot went to his left ankle and began to scratch. Nat got pulled out of his apathetic sinkhole by the sensation of ants crawling up his legs. They were in his shoes, under his socks and making there way up his calves. Bending down and pulling up the legs of his jeans he realised that they weren't actually there. Neither were there any ants under his socks. That's when they began to bite.

They seemed to bite through his skin and his flesh and began gnawing at his bones. And Nat's mind quickly upgraded them to termites. His sore throat started screaming again, now barely a hoarse whisper comparing to earlier in the day. He fell to his knees; scratching the imagined insects obviously not working.

By the time the ten thousand iron jaws had reached the bottom of his spine Nat was convinced that severing and getting rid of his upper body was the only thing for it. He was just going to have to learn to live without it. His intestines started to burn and his abdominals was spasming wild. He dropt to the ground and began flipping back and forth like a fish.

As the pain reached his head he thought his cranium would crack open. His brain was twitching and turning inside its hollow and his world picture was blurred in red, as if his eyes were bleeding internally. His ears were filled with the worst buzz he had ever heard, and both his mouth and nose with the sensation of blood.

Nat lay panting for a while after the pain had subsided, and even his hair had gotten a taste of the medicine. To his surprise he actually felt kind of good. Completely wasted, but good. It felt as though a filter had been driven through him, eating up or burning down any element that wasn't supposed to be there. But the utopia didn't last long. The memories of his grandfather and the injection creped up on him.

Sitting up he saw the dim contrast of the red and dark brown cotton shirt pinned lifeless to the tree stem. Rage swelled up. Uncontrollable. He wanted to hit something, anything, anybody. His fist cracked and his knuckles whitened. After a moment the initial fury passed, but he still wanted blood, except now he wanted to strangle the guy slowly and watch his eyes pop out.

Shaking he got to his feet. "What's in town? Why can't I go there?" he mumbled up to the elevated trunk. His thoughts rushed to the cabinet and the guns. There would be blood tonight, more than the world had ever seen. Nat swore it.

Each magazine held seven rounds and he had ten of them; the eight extra and the two already in the guns. He put it all in the holsters. In a back room, behind the living room, he found a bag which he stuffed the weapons and the ammo into before he went for the car, and set his sights on Raccoon City, his up-until-recent home.

7


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters or places lifted from the already existing Resident Evil universe. Nor do I own any of the products mentioned in the text. I don't get any profit from this. In fact, if you want to give me piles of cash because you think the story is so good, you can't.

Before anyone starts laughing and pointing I'd like to apologize for any misspellings and grammatical curiosities. (Translating into English forces me to think and it really slows me down.)

As a last note I'd like to warn that the text does contain some bad language and violence (mostly zombies getting their heads smashed in), so if you are offended by this, or just aren't interested, I suggest you turn around right now.

**Resident Evil: T-QR**

Episode 02:**"Neighbours, Everybody Needs Good Neighbours"**

It was a good drive down to the nearest neighbours. With the Subaru it was a challenge, with the Dodge it was home ground. The solid headlights lit up the bumpy road in front of him; the sun had just disappeared as he had spun the pickup out of the yard - the woods were now dark. Warm, yellow squares appeared in between the old stems.

It was a beautiful house; white and beige stone, though Nat had never understood why it had been raised out here. It had been built at the same time as Umbrella had moved into town, and apparently it was owned by someone who worked there. Not that there was anything strange with that, nearly one fifth of Raccoon City's population worked for the company in one way or another.

The drive had cleared his head a bit and a lot of the initial rage had subsided. Nat had more or less decided not to kill the first and best candidate he came across when suddenly something was in the road I front of him. It was there only for a heartbeat, then the car jolted and the windscreen bent inwards and went milky white.

Nat noticed something being flung over the roof and a dumb thump hitting the platform. In front of him he only saw the reflection of someone deep in a mixture of pure terror and concentration. He was clinging to the steering wheel, but unable to prevent anything as his world was tilted sideways. Only now it struck him to let off the gas. He stood on the brakes. Either these were the best brakes he had ever encountered, or he hit something.

The Dodge was lying on its side and Nat spat airbag powder. He was pushed down against the door by the force of gravity, and a very heavy bag. Knocking it over his head he loosened the safety belt and began to climb.

Opening the other door wasn't easy, and squeezing out while it wanted to keep him in wasn't fun either. It slammed shut under him. The pickup had gone straight into a huge rock in the side of the road, and the entire driver side was smashed in. The passenger side lights were still on, but blinking.

Nat jumped down, and felt how his entire body ached. It seemed he had gotten off free, until he got a glimpse of his right arm. There was a tear in his black jacket and a gash in his slightly embarrassingly pale upper arm. It didn't seem to bleed to bad, but it did hurt.

The platform of the pickup had a steel toolbox bolted to the front of it. As the lid opened loos equipment came stumbling out. Some of it was held fast with straps, however, among them a solid looking flashlight about the length of his upper arm. He turned it on, and standing with the flipped floor right in front of him Nat saw traces of blood all along the wood. It looked like it had been made by several thick brushes, scraped across the top of the car.

The rear lights shone down the side of the road, but hit to much bush and gravel to give him any real aid. A little uneasy Nat began searching the strip of road. He found a leg sticking out of a bush. Unfortunately the bush didn't contain any more than that one leg. In fact, it was only half a leg, severed at the knee.

"Hello?" Nat called. "Is there anybody… out there?" He realized that if this person was capable of hearing him, and would have been able to answer, Nat probably already would have known where he lay.

Hurtled in a heap, with his back twisted in an impossible angle and his arms and leg stretched out like a jointless rag doll, the man seemed lifeless. The exposed skin shone pale in the light from the torch. In fact it almost looked grey. Nat started to circle him, and discovered that one side of his face had been smashed in. He turned the light away immediately, and decided that checking for a pulse was unnecessary.

It was probably the drugs, and safe to say surreal events of the day that could be blamed. Nat felt nothing for the person he had just run over. Internally he felt all numb. But he wasn't so far gone that he wouldn't report this. There was no phone in the car, and he didn't carry one himself.

He was already on the neighbour's property. In the dim light he could just make out the plants, bushes and trees of the garden. He also saw movement in the rooms with the lights on. The crash must have made considerable noise, so why nobody had come to look was a bit of a mystery.

After only two steps he stopped, turned around and climbed back up on the car. Something was off, there was no question about that, and he wasn't going to run into some hick-fest without protection. He jerked the car door open and fished the bag up. The door slammed shut and Nat laid the dark brown bag on the cracked window. He dropped the flashlight in and pulled out one of the guns and stuffed it into his pants, hiding it with the jacket.

Close up he saw that many of the windows seemed to be boarded up from the inside. Dark surfaces had replaced curtains and the faint reflection of the rooms inside. Many of the windows were also broken, and he noticed another detail; all the windows had a fine, but obviously strong metal grids in front of them.

Nobody answered the doorbell. The door seemed unlocked, but Nat couldn't get it open. Instead he started walking around the house, hoping to find another way in, or maybe get verbal contact with one of the ever increasingly strange inhabitants.

A form suddenly passed one of the intact windows, and Nat shouted. He even tapped on the window through the grid, but with no result. The inside seemed to be bombarded. Furniture had been thrown around, cabinets were tumbled over and anything breakable inside smashed on the marble floors.

Even the back door, placed on one end of an external hallway, with one side replaced with a row of columns, was securely blocked. It wasn't until he got to the other side of the big house that an entrance presented itself to him. One of the grids had been ripped clean of the wall, some of the wallboards were broken and several of them bent out. Inside was a hallway, and as he climbed in he thought he heard the sound of a helicopter in the distance.

There was a distinct smell in the room. Like something had been rotting for a couple of days. Also, there were stains certain places on the walls and floor that he couldn't quite identify. It seemed smeared on, like old cheese spread across toast.

The door at the end led to a small waiting room with a purple sofa piled up against a wall, two matching purple and stainless steel chairs thrown randomly around with a low broken coffee table under a crocked painting of a stylized wave, some boats and a mountain in the background.

Another door at the other end stood ajar. Nat thought he heard movement; rattling in cloths. He pushed the door all the way up, and saw a group of seven or eight people standing with their backs to him. All were hunched over and seemed to do nothing other than stand there.

Large broken windows let the night in. A cool breeze rolled across the stained, but shiny, marble floor and made the long curtains sway like ghosts. Modern looking columns and arches decorated the walls of the light beige living room. Pictures had obviously been hanging between the slim columns, but were now lying with broken frames and shattered glass on the floor.

"Excuse me, I…" As he spoke the men and women turned, their cloths ripped and shredded, they're skin pale grey and they're faces and necks covered with wounds and bite marks. "Excuse…" he tried again, captured by the unreal sight. The zombies went for him immediately.

Jaws flapping open with bit-off tongues and broken teeth suddenly came limping towards him. Nat backed off along the wall with the door he had come in through. He kept trying to talk to them, mostly out of reflex. They didn't respond, other than with groaning sounds and an arm-wavering that totally freaked him out.

Eventually he backed into a corner. He felt something hard against the small of his back, and remembered the piece. He drew. "I've got a gun!" he yelled. The closest guy was no more than five feet away, and Nat let it rip. Recoil tore through his arm and the wounded shoulder and nearly caused him to drop the gun. The 50 calibre slug hit the guy high in the torso, close to his left shoulder.

But it did practically nothing. The bullet span out of his shoulder blade and struck another guy behind him in the stomach, and did even less damage. Nat supported with his left arm and fired again, this time directly at the guy's head, and practically at point blank range. A whole the size of a silver dollar seemed to magically appear just over the man's left eye, and the back of his head exploded. A sticky jelly of almost black blood, grey brain matter and pieces of yellowish bone got evenly spread out over the followers.

The guy went down, sunk like a sack of potatoes, suddenly without strength. The others didn't seem to notice. Nat continued to shave rounds off the magazine, but the five remaining bullets went too fast. Three guys and a girl lay dead when the Colt clicked. He stuffed the gun back and looked around in desperation. He saw a tall, black, wrought-iron candlestick to his left, and grabbed it.

The candles were missing, but it had five cups to place them in at the top, and they dug themselves into the closest head with disgusting ease. The man was forced back as Nat threw his weight forwards. It created a path for him to momentarily escape. He rushed over the littered floor to the large broken windows, only to discover that the metal grid was just as strong as he had anticipated.

There was no getting out this way. The living room had more doors, but Nat figured the one he had come in through was his best bet. He did a good circle along the columned wall, over the broken masterpieces - never taking his eyes of the zombies, till he passed the seven empty shells and reached the door.

He tore it open and slammed it shut in the same movement. The waiting room was full, and apparently the waiting was over. Around a dozen bodies, Nat hadn't really taken the time to count, threw them selves against the door. Luckily Nat had gotten it properly closed, and these guys on the other side didn't seem to be too into the mechanics of doorknobs.

This open door wouldn't hold the herd for long. And if he stayed holding it shut the remaining four in here would get him. In the last instance he got himself to let go. He almost fell sideways out of the way of the closest one. Candlestick-head had only gotten as far as to the centre of the room, and obviously struggled with his new attribute. His body wanted to go and get the new food, but his head only went in circles.

Nat grabbed the stake and pulled it out, with a soul wrenching suction sound. He swung it and splattered the remaining head like a rotten melon, as the door smashed open and hell joined the dance. Around a dozen had been a severe understatement, Nat realized.

The damn doorframe didn't seem to want to stop puking out living dead. Nat gave one of the originals a good swing before he went for one of the other doors. It was open and he ran through, without even considering what might be waiting on the other side. It was a short hallway with the same columns and arches along the walls. Other than that it was empty.

The hallway wasn't too wide, and since the door opened inwards he could place the long candlestick across it, jammed into the décor on both sides. It probably wouldn't hold forever, but he should buy himself some time.

Easing the door at the other end up gently a dancehall came into view. It was an atrium with the circular balcony of the first floor halfway up, and a part glass part stone vault at the top. The ground floor had columns and arches under the balcony. Zombies, nine or ten of them, waltzed around mindlessly.

Behind him the poorly constructed bar wasn't doing its job. Nat eased into the hall, hoping not to attract anybody's attention, but it was like they could smell him. He grabbed a chair not too far away and smacked one of the un-dead over the head. Another swing and his head cracked.

Nat jammed the chair under the door handle. This would keep the hordes for a lot longer. Turning his attention to the next problem in line, eight zombies were still dragging them selves towards him. But they were split up and doing slalom in between them to get to the doors on the other side wasn't too difficult.

Expecting that one door was as good as another, Nat ripped one open and peered in. The hallway behind was clear except one solo legion of the dead. As the mob in the dancehall was now regrouping Nat decided to take his chances with the loner. Before he moved in he broke the leg of a table. It was good and solid; slim at the bottom and thick and square at the top, made of dark wood.

Closing the door behind him he figured he had one good chance at this. If he fucked up it could get messy. Elevating the club above his head he ran at the zombie. Four feet away he slammed down the weapon, planting it thoroughly through the man's head and well into his torso.

Stuff you would only expect to find inside a rotting corpse came flying out. Nat quickly, and panicky, shaved the stuff of off his face, almost loosing control to that need to just lie down and twitch. The body went down sideways, and Nat passed him whilst he pulled the club out.

Checking the doors almost blindly he found one that was open and went in. It was a bedroom with a single double bed and big windows. It seemed empty and Nat went straight for the bathroom. He yanked up the handle on the sink and shoved his face and head in under the ice cold water.

The gunk that came off him was greyish pink and stank of pet-not-fed-for-a-couple-of-weeks. Far from convinced he was clean he straightened up, only to see someone in the mirror with him. It was a young woman, in a short red dress, and she hissed at him and went for his throat. Nat shot out both his arms to keep her at a distance.

Her hands grabbed his jacket and tried to pull him closer, for a French kiss it seemed. But Nat wasn't that kind of a guy. He tried to push her backward in the cramp bathroom, and smash her into the wall - or maybe some fancy rich-guy décor that could jam into her back. He found no such thing.

The club was still standing up against the sink where he had left it. He gave her a thrust towards the door and let go with one hand. He had the melee-weapon in it seconds later, and managed to get a strike in over her shoulder. It most defiantly fell out of its socket. With the arm hanging almost right out of the front of her chest she stumbled out.

Standing still for a moment, about nine feet away, the thick, dark hair with bright highlighting framing her face Nat suddenly realized she had probably been strikingly beautiful ones. The next moment she went for him, and Nat knocked her head clean off with a winning high swing.

There were footsteps in the hallway outside, so Nat hurried to the door and closed it. The key was in the lock, so he finally managed to carve himself some room to think. There was one more door out of the bedroom. Another hallway on the other side, narrow, empty and not as decorated as the others. The door couldn't be locked, but it opened inwards, so a chair under the old knob would suffice.

There was a cupboard with three drawers in it. The two top ones contained cloths, but the one at the bottom had a glass lid, and Nat saw serious looking guns on the other side. The lid had a digit keyboard, and required a code which Nat obviously didn't have. He slammed it with the butt of his empty gun, and upgraded the glass to Plexiglas.

Recognizing a loosing battle he gave up. Instead his eyes fell on a piece of paper lying on top of the cupboard.

It had a single line written on it.

Nat read it.

It was bullshit.

If one of these cupboards held weapons, then maybe there were more, Nat thought. He looked under the bed, behind mirrors and paintings, but didn't strike home before he almost tipped over a wardrobe. On the top shelf, behind some linen sheets, he pulled out a three foot, mat black object. It was a sword, but not like one of those you would see in movies set in some ancient time. This one looked modern, almost military, and when he pulled the single-edge blade out of the scabbard it was mat black as well.

The scabbard had four straps connected to it, and it become clear that the thing went on his back. It would be difficult with the jacket on. He took it off and cut a slit on the back, just under the collar. With the scabbard fastened to his chest he through the jacket back on, and with a little fiddling the black holster fit through the slit. After even more fiddling the sword was in place.

With the windows just as impregnable as in the living room Nat had no choice but to keep on looking. The narrow hallway led to a staircase up to the first floor. The walls had panelling and the floors red carpets. Signs of struggle were everywhere, but who had fought these beasts Nat didn't know. There seemed to be no living left in the house.

A door led out to the balcony above the ballroom. The shiny dance floor below was empty as far at Nat could see. Everybody was probably banging on that pretty girl's bedroom door by now. But he wasn't alone up here. Two zombies were coming straight for him and three more were stumbling over on the other side.

The razor-sharp edge cut through the first man's head with ease. Half the scalp, with one eye still attached, slid off. The bowl shaped cranium bit cracked as it hit the marble, and the brain splashed out. Nat bent over the tumbling body to the zombie behind and thrust. The blade disappeared into the old woman's upper chest, and Nat parted her from that spot and up.

Before the other three could reach him Nat had found an open door. It was another waiting room, or living room, or whatever all these rooms were. This one had had several bookshelves standing up against one of the walls. Now it had several broken pieces of bookshelf-shaped plank lying all over the floor, along with the shredded books. The furniture seemed to have witnessed up close one of Wolverine's particularly bad days. He wiped the blade off on a dying cushion and fiddled the sword back in its scabbard.

There were two doors leading out, and Nat picked one by random. He opened it, thinking that he had gotten fairly used to the whole situation, and that he was fairly well tooled for the task ahead, then instantaneously he was proven wrong on both accounts. What hung upside-down in the sealing added itself to the list of Nat's first timers this evening. That list was getting long and complicated, but this one still managed to stand out.

It seemed to have been skinned not too long ago; naked red muscle and white tendons covered its body. Though it was bent forward, and obviously moved on all fours, it had human shape. It did not have eyes however, but its brain was as naked as the rest of it. The hands and feet (or was it paws?) had long claws and as it opened its needle infested mouth a whip like tongue shot out.

Nat slammed the door shut and felt just as much as heard that massive tongue hit and splinter the panelling. There was nothing in here solid enough to block the door, so he ran across the room and through the door he hadn't chosen. Right behind him the door broke.

Another miniature library. This one had a still standing bookshelf and Nat yanked it over. He shoved it in front of the door and bolted out the door to his left. On the balcony again, as something soft, yet very hard smashed though a door and into a bookshelf.

The three zombies had gotten all the way over, but Nat wasn't going to waste time with them. He just ran. Down a corridor he hadn't been before and down a set of wide steps. Something made of wood, and not meant to be opened that way, was crushed behind him, and what sounded like naked feet in desperate need of a manicure galloped after him.

Within minutes he was back in the dancehall. Unsure for only a second he continued for a set of doors he hadn't tried yet. The large wooden double doors swung open and Nat wondered if he should try to block them. If he had the time. He saw a large turned-over table at the other end, but it seemed heavy. Then he realized that he was looking at the front door. He darted over to it and began to push the table away.

The beast was on the dance floor. Nat heard the tittering of large claws against the marble. The table wouldn't move. He saw that a solid list had been nailed to the floor, and that was why the table didn't just slide down. Nat tried tilting it up instead, to free the door enough to squeeze out.

As the licker burst trough the double doors Nat had gotten the table up and the door too. He watched the skinned beast throw itself into a run, the four legs; he knew they were all legs now, going like crazy, like some salamander on speed. Tail in the wrong end, of course.

As the tongue whipped just over his head he fell out, landing hard on the stone porch and hearing the table slam back into place. But that wasn't going to stop the licker. Its massive body and claws started working vigorously with the hard wood. Nat ran as fast as he was on his feet, heading for the Dodge.

Too soon the door splintered and cracked. It had gotten a lot darker since last Nat was outside, and the only thing he could see of the car was the two red rear lights and the one blinking headlight.

The distance felt like a runway, although it couldn't be much more than 120 – 140 yards. As he ran he pulled up the gun, released the magazine and let it drop. He almost collided with the undercarriage before he began to climb. The bag was still on the door, and it was open. He jerked out the other gun and threw himself around. The beast was nowhere to be seen.

Nat panicked. He swirled around, pointing the gun every witch way. Only by forcing himself to sit still did he manage to regain control. He was in the bag and out again in seconds, with a fresh clip, and loaded the first gun. Then he jumped down and started away from the car. He kept turning around, and then he saw the cars blinking lights reflecting in something slippery easing up the side of the road.

Almost overcome with adrenaline, pumping in his head and making it feel as though it was packed in cotton, he held out both guns, following the creature, but not having a clue if he would be able to hit on any distance. The beast had seen him, and in an action so impulsive and aggressive Nat couldn't believe it was human it threw itself into a sprint.

Muzzles started spitting sparks, smoke and copper jacketed lead. The recoil hammered Nat's shoulders and wrists. Every time a round fired the world was lit up for a split second, and every time the licker was a little closer, frozen in its many catlike poses. And to Nat it didn't seem like a single shot hit home.

And too early the guns ran empty. The slides locked in their backmost position, and the licker was three steps away from sinking it's many thin, sharp teeth into Nat's throat. The kid dropped his guns straight down. He ran his hands to the black rubber grip sticking up over the back of his head. As the beast jumped at him he went down on one knee, drew his sword and cut overhead in one motion.

The heavy body effectively threw itself on the sword. Nat felt the blade hit resistance, but also how the razor edge cut through flesh and bone with frightening, and undeniably satisfying ease. Losing its momentum the licker fell. Nat forced the blade sideways and prevented ending up underneath the ting.

The blade had split the body down to the middle of its chest. The one half lay resting unevenly on the other. Nat drew the sword from the carcass. He dug up some cloth from the pile by the platform and wiped the blade clean. After a little searching he found the guns and the ditched clip. He filled all the magazines up and took of his jacket.

After studying the holsters and the straps in the light from the dented disco ball his grandfather's Doge had been reduced to it became clear that the guns went under his arms. The two suspenders; the gun's and the sword's, didn't interfere as long as he put the gun holsters on first. The magazine holsters fit on his belt on either side of the scabbard tip.

There had to be a decent car around here somewhere. He wasn't about to walk back to Raccoon City. The garage was on the far side of the house. As he passed the entrance three zombies came for him. They had escaped through the hole the licker had made, and there were more in line.

Nat drew and fired, the golden cartridge spinning through the night air. The shot only kissed the confused man, tearing off an ear and parts of his due. Nat steadied with his left hand and put the next round right between the two dumbstruck eyes. He sent another one after the zombie behind, and hit her more or less in the same place. He laid up for the third, but stopped himself. There was really no point to this.

The garage held three cars, only one which Nat had any interest in at the moment, a dark blue -05 Ford Ranger. He found a locked metal box on the wall, which he picked with one of the Colts, and retrieved the keys. Well inside he flung the bag over at the passenger side and shut the doors. The zombies caught up with him as he refilled the clips, but there wasn't much they could do.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters or places lifted from the already existing Resident Evil universe. Nor do I own any of the products mentioned in the text. I don't get any profit from this. In fact, if you want to give me piles of cash because you think the story is so good, you can't.

Before anyone starts laughing and pointing I'd like to apologize for any misspellings and grammatical curiosities. (Translating into English forces me to think and it really slows me down.)

As a last note I'd like to warn that the text does contain some bad language and violence (mostly zombies getting their heads smashed in), so if you are offended by this, or just aren't interested, I suggest you turn around right now.

**Resident Evil: T-QR**

Episode 03:**"A Rollercoaster-ride Back to Town"**

Nat hadn't been driving for more than five minutes when the first burst sang through the forest. After it, several more, both single shots and bursts. From Nat's point of view it seemed to be coming from far away, but different parts of the woods. And from both sides of the road. Now and then what sounded like explosions lit up in the distance.

Then it suddenly let off. Nat kept his attention to any signs of the battle starting up again and getting to close for comfort. But he didn't hear it again for a while, and when it did appear again he wouldn't have to worry about noticing it.

Half an hour after the last round rang a lump passed the pickup on the right side. The forest road was full of piles of stuff, so at first Nat didn't notice. Half a blink of an eye later, how ever, he realized it had been a body. He hit the brakes and backed up about 15 feet.

The dark coloured man was dressed in a black tactical suit, like some especial ops soldier, or something. The arms on his jacket had pockets. The legs on his pants had pockets. His vest was absolutely covered in them. They had probably held weapons, ammunition and all kinds of special gear. And all were now empty, except for two grenades hanging from hoops on the side of his vest.

Round as baseballs with handles down one side, and of course the notorious ring, they were heavier than they looked. Nat walked over to the passenger side and opened the door. He put the two grenades in one of the side pockets, and was startled as something moved in the bushes.

Turning towards the back of the car he spotted the wet shine. The beast was standing on all fours just by the rear lights. The oversized tongue spat out. Nat ducked and drew. The limb sliced through the side of the car like it was made of tinfoil. Side window shattering above him, Nat opened fire.

Because of his position he hadn't pulled more than one gun, and the seven rounds went in no-time. But this time he saw they hit. Thick droplets of dark blood scatting out as the bullets penetrated its shoulders and head. A second later it had gathered itself and moved away, behind the car.

Nat switched guns immediately and heard the licker crawl up along the other side of the Ford. It stopped, beyond doubt preparing for the attack. Seeing what the ting could do with a window or a door, Nat knew that it would get him before he could get the car started. He had to face it off.

Closing the door he expected the licker to attack over the roof or around the front. He didn't know why, it just seemed natural, but as the thought became clear to him, he suddenly realized it was wrong. The crawling bastard would of course attack from underneath.

His heart jumping with the revelation - he didn't know how it managed it, in the middle of its already wild gallop – and he jumped up on the platform side. As he did so the whipping tongue sliced through his ghost ankles, stirring up grabble in its wake. The head and shoulders showed up not long after, up side down.

Waiting just long enough to get something solid to hit Nat emptied the Colt with only that in mind: Getting as much lead into that ugly head as possible. The beast pulled itself back under, but Nat saw its movement had changed. He reloaded and jumped back down. It was twitching in the dark, and Nat fired till it stopped.

He rose with a shiver running down his back. Adrenaline made the night air feel thick like wool and his ears throbbed lazily. He gave him self a pat on the shoulders, for a job well done. Unfortunately the place was a little occupied. A gloved hand had grabbed him, belonging to the dead soldier. The man's other arm tried to assist, but being shredded from the shoulder down it only flapped at his side.

The zombie jerked as Nat pulled free, its grip firmer than Nat had expected. He had the muzzle almost in the man's face as he fired. The last three rounds in the gun made hollow clanks as they hit the inside of the helmet, ricocheting of the armoured metal and scrambling things about.

Ego back in place Nat quickly replaced both clips. He circled the car to the driver side, and standing to open the door his ego hit the bumpy forest road. In the outskirts of the bright headlights three figures moved, low to the ground and glistening.

Ripping the door open he threw himself in and got the gear in first. Letting go of the clutch the four-wheel drive spun only a second before the Ford jumped into action. _Jumped_ meaning it jolted forward. Nat had in the sudden hurry all but forgotten the carcass under the car. He almost lost control, but only a second later the heavy pickup was back on track.

The lickers initiated their attack as soon as they realized the boy would flee. The unexpected movement of the vehicle however forced them to rethink their approach. One of them didn't get out of the way soon enough and the chromed fender hit it in the side. Half a heartbeat later it rolled, and went under the wheels. Again the car jolted, and again Nat just barely saved it from the ditch.

In the mirrors he could see one of the lickers seemingly out of the game. The other two however threw themselves around and took up the hunt. He would have floored it if it hadn't been for the state of the road. Rolling over in the roadside or breaking an axel in a pothole right now would be a quick death at best.

Still the speed was adequate, and with an open mouthed, closed jawed grin on his sweaty face he saw the beasts fall back. Five minutes later he ran over a fishing line stretched across the road. Only because the trap was meant for a slower moving game, and the trigger was set to four seconds, Nat and the Ford got away clean. He took cover, shocked by the sudden explosion at the side of the road and the metal fragments whistling through the air.

Getting up again Nat wheeled the pickup to the side, by a hair's width avoiding the man in the road. He was dressed like the dead guy; a black combat suit with stuff hanging off all over the place. He had a gun to, a nasty looking one with two barrels and several magazines, looking like it could do everything except firing itself.

Almost vertical to the road from not hitting the guy Nat had to restart the choked engine. The guy was at his window, in a movement which seemed rehearsed, with the nasty weapon thrust against the glass. "Get out off the car! I'm taking over this vehicle!"

Nat froze, not knowing what to do. The Ford was running, and his hand had stopped inches over the stick.

"You deaf, boy!"

Nat still didn't move.

"…!" The angry man opened his mouth to yell some more when something caught his attention. It was coming down the road, and there were two of them.

The guy turned around. His gun made a hollow pop, like high pressure suddenly being released, and parts of the all ready bad road up ahead exploded. He followed up with automatic fire for a few seconds. As the gun clicked and he grabbed a new clip he yelled to Nat; "Don't move an inch!" He sent a few more glowing projectiles towards the dodging beasts.

"We can get…!" was the last Nat heard of the guy as he span the hell out of there.

Lights were still blinking behind him as Nat turned a corner. He had slightly too high a speed, and salvaging the course took up most of his attention. For that reason Nat was probably the more surprised as the third tactically dressed man came way too close for comfort. The right side of the hood took the blunt force, but some body part also slammed into the windscreen.

The man must have been carrying a revolver, because one jumped in front of the screen like a cockroach on a hotplate before one particularly vengeful pothole made it disappeared off to somewhere. He must also have held something bigger and heavier. A bag; big and square, made a serious dent in the front of the grill and the hood. It got thrown up and over the roof, hit the platform with a nasty clank before it knocked the tailgate open.

As Nat returned his gaze from the rear view mirror he was shown why you should never take your eyes of the road for too long at a time. One of those sharp-tongued monsters came at him at a run. As mentioned before the beasts didn't have any eyes, but it seemed surprised enough as it hit the grill.

In a shower of blood the naked body splashed on to the bonnet. It slid, kicking its legs and twitching to find foothold, into the windscreen. The bare brain left an imprint of greyish pink on the cobweb of cracks. Sprawling for a second it slid off.

Nat turned on the windscreen wipers, and had to supply with the washer to remove those hard to get stains. The headlights had taken on a pink haze which compromised their efficiency. He knew it was tempting fate, but he stopped the car and switched the empty clips with full ones before he sped up again.

Things seemed to calm down. Two or three minutes passed without incident, but then he made a small hill and down on the other side four creatures were hunched over two finished-off-turkey-shaped bodies. All four sat up as the lights hit them.

The narrow road was blocked, but Nat didn't slow down. Something made him keep his speed up. It was probably instinct or reflex, up until now keeping the Ford rolling had been the only thing keeping him alive. However, the rational part of his brain told him that that tactic might not work here. The carcasses certainly weren't going to move, and it didn't seem like the lickers were ready to leave the table just yet either.

The slightly effeminate pink headlights were on the crowed in seconds. Nat threw the car to the right, missing the main mass of the dead bodies, but taking off a leg or two. The four huge tires skidded sideways towards the road ditch. One licker didn't get out of the way end got sliced in half across the back. The two others in the immediate range jolted sideways, but one got kissed on the hip.

Sliding into the relatively deep ditch at the side of the road the Ford started to loose speed. The front wheels struggled to climb up the loose grabbles. All three lickers had taken up the chase, and one could almost taste the car. It jumped forwards and planted its claws in the lowered tailgate.

For a moment it was dragged after the car, but it got foothold and kicked itself on to the platform. Nat, watching the whole thing in the rear view mirror, hoping the ugly mother wouldn't make it – saw it brace itself before it came diving forwards. The rear window shattered in a million shards, and suddenly some herpes infested dickhead on steroids, with its own six feet tongue, was ravaging the inside of the cabin.

Nat tore out a gun with his left hand and emptied the magazine into the pulsating brain at point blank. The beast shrieked in a hoarse, high-pitch note, and when the gun clicked it lay there twitching in random spasms. The tongue lay motionless over the gearshift and down among the pedals and Nat's feet.

Then the front wheels found traction or the ditch narrowed out; the Ford jumped back on the road, and Nat barely saved it from a repetition on the other side. The speed hadn't been that great down in the roadside. Slow enough in fact for the other two lickers to come right up alongside the car. They stumbled sideways as the car went back on the road, but kept up the pursuit.

Noticing the company Nat tried to speed up, but the horrible condition of the road kept him at a sprinting pace. It seemed for a moment that he had, if not lost, at least thrown them back; when a sound like someone attacked the door with a gigantic can opener begged for differ. The glinting red shape clung to the side of the car, slowly tearing through metal sheeting, framework and polished, genuine leather interior.

Nat drew with his right hand, and steadying on his left arm he fired into the door. The bullets went straight through, and there was no doubt that they hit what they were supposed to on the other side. The licker shook with every hit and lost its grip before Nat had fired the last round.

Behind the car the wounded, but not defeated licker rolled like a stumbling horse down a steep hill. The other licker dodged his comrade. It cost them a couple of feet, but soon they were back on his tail.

The road not giving any signs of flattening out Nat realized that he wouldn't loose these stalkers just with high hopes and persistence. He needed a stronger remedy. The kind that went boom. Not really wanting to touch the huge, naked brain bleeding between the seats Nat tried to move it over with his elbow. It was surprisingly heavy, and the shoulders were jammed in and held fast by the broken glass.

Still he managed to pull the bag towards himself and get a glimpse of the two grenades. It didn't exactly come as a surprise that the window didn't respond to the little plastic button on the door panel. He had to open it by other means.

Using his left hand to steer he fumbled behind his back and pulled out to new magazines. He held the guns against the steering wheel while he replaced the clips. It didn't feel completely safe, with the bumpy road and bad lights, but it went without incident, although the speed had subsided slightly, and the lickers gained on him.

He wasn't sure if the glass would explode, or what. Attempting to protect as much of his face as he could he elevated his left arm and shoulder, and lower his head. Then he rested the gun hand on the arm and fired. Five slugs pounded through the window, making it milky white, but not removing it. It had however gotten pulverized, and as he punched through with the muzzle it popped out and was gone.

With the gun back in its holder, Nat bent over and fished up the first grenade. A complete virgin on the field, ha took a few seconds to orientate himself with the boom-fruit. Holding it in his left fist he secured a firm grip around the handle. Fumbling for the ring with his tongue he caught it in his teeth.

Hesitating for a second he pulled the pin. The two beasts still chased him, no more than 30 or 40 feet behind. He didn't know how long a fuse these things had, but he guessed five, or six seconds. That would mean the grenade would be far behind them as it went off.

Aware he might be doing something stupid he let go of the handle. It flung itself away in a spring-loaded dive, but Nat didn't let go of the grenade. He held on till he had counted to two, then he simply dropped it. It hit the gravel road, and in its only bounce barely reached three inches. It rolled, and came to rest in a small, but comfy hole.

Three seconds later the fuse hit the charge and the metal ball exploded. Two figures had just passed, and the grenade's sharp fragments cut through flesh and bone. They both shirked their high-pitch screams. One of them didn't get up.

Nat straightened up from his brace-position and noticed that only one of the creatures continued the hunt. It might very well be that he had won this round, but he didn't intend to take any chances. He bent over the naked, bleeding head and snatched up the last boom-fruit. More into the routine and feeling much more secure about the whole operation, he yanked out the ring and held the grenade handle-free for a few seconds before he let it drop.

From his sunken position he saw the sudden explosion erupt almost directly underneath the licker. It got lobbed up in the air, in several pieces, along with smoke, fire and road. Shrapnel struck the car this time too, and Nat felt himself twitch a little at the sound. It felt like they were flying right past his head.

As if the night actually had the power to undo the last hour's events, the road was left empty, silent and dark for almost a mile. Nat sat there driving with the eco of gunshots, explosions and screaming wheels in his head, unable to believe how silent the forest had gotten. He couldn't remember it ever being this quiet.

And as if lady luck, charm or destiny, or who ever had taken over the string pulling around here, decided to apologise gun bursts again filled the air. It had to be more than two, probably three automatic guns going off at ones. Blinking lights between the trunks, just around a turn, betrayed the battles location.

Nat halted the car and turned off the lights. He could hear orders being shouted in between the bursts. Suddenly a stray bullet clonked through the passenger door and disappeared into Mr. Brain. Nat jumped as the limp head wobbled like a thick bag full of jelly. If it hadn't been there, neither would Nat anymore. He wondered if he should feel grateful towards the thing, but only came to the conclusion that not asking such questions was what he should be worrying about.

He had to get out of here, and there was only one road. He replaced the partially spent clip, noticing there was only two left on his back. Easing the vehicle around the corner, hoping he wouldn't get spotted right away. Down the road, where it broadened out slightly, three black draped people were barely holding off seven or eight lickers.

Still with the lights off Nat slammed the hammer down, the Ford roared furiously. He tried to get it up to third along the short strip. He was spotted almost immediately, but no one took any action before he was halfway there. One of them, a young woman, opened fire towards him. Several rounds hit the engine compartment and four or five pierced the windscreen, but no one got close to him.

The first he hit was a licker. It had raised itself up on its hind legs, and took the blunt force of the Ford's passenger side headlights in the hip. It somersaulted like a rag doll out of the way. The car got pushed to the right and adopted a slight skid.

A fraction of a moment later another licker received the skidding front wheel over its spread out back. Both its ends bent up, and for a moment the tongue shock like it were electrified. The Ford jumped and levelled itself out for a second, but then its ass started to swing. It showed up on the right side, as the wheels lost traction on the gravel. The lights and lowered rear-gate fender-bended one of the soldiers out of the road.

Two lickers on the other side of the now broken circle tried to get out of the two-ton runaway steel plated ram. Caching first a leg, and thereby holding it in place, the Ford spun up ones back. Desperate for traction on the wet, slippery surface the deep tracked front wheel dug through spine and intestines and spat it all out sideways as Nat was pulling the steering wheel to straighten up the car.

This was where the road cleared up a little. It got a little broader and it got a little wider. Nat used it to its fullest and sped up, the four or five lickers picking up the chase not really worrying him. He knew the conditions would only get better as he neared the city, and no way could they keep up with him on asphalt.

Calmed by these jolly feelings something strange was happening up ahead. As the deep forest started to give and the road straightened out, he could see further. It was like the road wobbled. Almost like it was liquid. Then he realized, in the pink glare, that it was – and it must at least have been – two dozen lickers coming dead at him.

A 35 to 40 feet section of the road glittered in stripped muscles and tendons. At this point Nat was in no doubt. He could do nothing but step on it.

Hitting those first lickers was like suddenly entering winter conditions. After the Ford's front had jumped, and slammed back down, the car struggled to find grip. All four tires spat blood and muscle tissue. Nat felt the ground move and change as he desperately tried not to loose too much speed.

One rear and one front wheel finally struck road, and the car jolted forward. It was uneven traction it had found, but it lasted only for a few seconds. In what felt like a heartbeat the road was clear in front of him. The lickers had moved out of the way, and the car shilly-shallied slightly as it sped up, Nat realizing he was flooring it.

Claws and tongues tried to grab hold of the car, so Nat wasn't going to slow down despite the ominous lack of control. He was past the parade in moments, but noted with a fast glance in the few still percent mirrors that it had taken up chase.

The trees giving out meant the road was also getting better. The gravel foundation and twisting path still made 25 feel like almost 60, but at least he was loosing his tail. A shivering grin creeping up on his stiff lips Nat released a nervous laugh.

The trees giving out also meant more light was allowed from the stars and the moon high above him. The world was painted again in shades of black and Nat could just make out the ravine and the bridge up ahead. The ground was now sloping and had it been daylight he would have been able to see all the way to town from here. At night the white, yellow and read lights was the only thing revealing that there was actually anything out there in the ocean of dark.

The road had straightened out too, and nothing kept Nat from bringing the hammer down. Except one tiny tinkle in his gut, telling him something wasn't quite right. Ignoring it at first he became aware of this "something" that his subconscious obviously already had noted.

There was something strange with the bridge. It had things bending upwards, like steel beams or something. And the middle section seemed to be missing.

Slamming the breaks in panic Nat stared at the support beams bending up like they had at some point been no more solid than H-shaped strips of soldering led. Quick glances in the mirror showed the army of darkness tumbling over each other coming out of the woods.

His alternatives were rotating fast in his head. Problem was; there was only one alternative, and the lap time kept getting shorter. With no more time to think Nat released the clutch and the Ford impatiently bolted into a slow jog. Gearing up to second the car sped up to a good run, and at third it was sprinting.

Bumps were magnified as Nat was pushed unto his seat. He saw the remnants of the bridge slightly bending up like a ski jump. The clutch united the engine and the driveshaft in fourth and new power seemed to be injected into the very soul of the Ford just as it hit the jump.

Under the bonnet something roared like a caged lion, the car seemed to hit a solid wall, and Nat's world view was suddenly dominated entirely by the stars and moon high above him. He experienced a moment of complete silence, although the V8 was showing off more than ever. His tender cheeks left the leather seat and the only thing keeping him in place was the seatbelts and his death grip on the steering wheel.

The heavy engine caused the car to tilt forward into a dive, but before the angle got too steep the flight was over and Nat slammed into the seat to the sound of something solid braking. He bounced back up once and hit his head in the sealing.

In the confusing seconds following he didn't se much. Nat felt the car was behaving strangely, it didn't respond to the commands he gave it trough the wheel, and instead it screamed like some iron animal with two broken legs. It had taken on a dangerous U-turn which was leading them both back towards the ravine edge.

Reflexes kicking in before reason - just as well - Nat put all his weight on the breaks. The Ford stopped almost instantaneously. The kid sat there breathing heavily; knuckles white and his fingerprints permanently imprinted in the genuine leather covering the steering wheel, his shoulder joints would probably rip off before his grip. The nose of the car just peaking out over the vertical drop, Nat had been given a panorama view to the spectacle that was about to take place.

The lickers still came hurtling down on him. The pinkish headlights illuminating them dead on; naked brains glistering, tongues whipping like alien tentacles and shoulders working with frightening strength. As the red herd neared the missing piece of landscape they started to skid. Massive claws dug into the ground, but the speed was high and the once behind kept pushing on.

Some skidded sideways off the edge; four legs spread out like the support beams on heavy cranes and diggers and the claws leaving deep grooves. Some simply dived, desperately trying to find foothold in the relatively loose soil, but failing and disappearing in the dark. Some took a chance, and jumped. But the distance was too great, and they too disappeared out of Nat's view.

Barely a fourth was left on the bank when the lemming-impressions had ended. They lay there on all fours sniffing in the air, trying to sense another way over, Nat guessed. He tore the Ford in reverse and the rear wheels practically pulled the rest of the car backwards. Solid scrape marks were left in the dirt.

So far back Nat could no longer see the cliff side he finally halted the worn out car. It almost seemed to thank him as he turned the ignition and the engine stopped. Stepping out with his flashlight the damage became clear. There wasn't a single panel without scratches, dents, rips and holes. There was more scratched up metal and smeared blood than metallic dark blue.

And of course the front wheels had almost disappeared into the hood. Bent up and inwards they looked like some failed imitation of retracted landing gear. The Ford had defiantly served its purpose. Nat checked the glove compartment, without finding anything of use, before he pulled the bag out. He refilled the empty magazines and started walking towards the light.

10


End file.
